


Scales

by CAPSING



Series: Finished, not Perfect [8]
Category: Shingeki no Bahamut: Virgin Soul
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: Judgement can sometimes be skewed.(Snippets of their evening together, from Charioce’s perspective.)





	Scales

**Author's Note:**

> … Even when my ships are canon, there’s no fics. Sigh.  
> I hope Charioce has a good excuse for being such an asshole.  
> There’s good in you yet, you maniacal twat. Even if Nina would have to rip it out of your chest.  
> (also this disguise. It looks like he stole it from Free! and lost his camel on the way)  
> (ALSO HIS NAME IS CHEERIOS. I JUST.)  
> (also also this ship’s name should really be chilly pepper. ‘cause like, it’s them. he’s the chilly. she’s the pepper. it’s even red like their future dragon-babies.)

A King doesn't need to carry things with him.

With nothing more than a snap of his fingers, a servant would manifest by his side, head lowered, ready to attend to his every whim. They’d bring him food, clothes, water; carry his sword to sharpen it after practice at the grindstone, and replace it with another. As they’re all sworn to lay down their lives for him, providing such material possessions is hardly an effort for them.

After all, a King can't afford to carry things, as he already carries the burden of an entire kingdom upon his shoulders. Its future, its existent. Such things could never again be taken for granted, most of all to human-kind. Charioce must always be vigilant, ready to crush opposition wherever it pops out, like an infestation he’d curb, even at the cost of burning down the entire forest.

 

That's why the weight in his pocket, albeit entirely insignificant, feels so bothersome.

 

It’s a distraction. Not only of the present moment, but the past, as well; a moment of carelessness that made him take it rather than retrieve it.  It’s as if it sears through the fabric and pokes at his chest like a scalding poker, to remind him of his faults, ingrained in him as part of his human nature.

Charioce is not some common rotten thief, to take what’s not his to own, when he just came to aid.

He must sort this out at once.

After this meeting.

 

He puts his fingertips against his lips, and it stings against his flesh.

 

* * *

 

It's the hair that gets to him.

It prods his mind when he should be listening to the General giving him his report.

Only.

It's dull. It had been dull for a long time, more of the same; the borders are secure; bandits were caught, punishment was commenced, hands were severed-off; the Rag Demon was still on the loose, because Charioce is surrounded by incompetent people who somehow made it into knighthood, probably by sucking cock or just killing off the right people. Maybe dumb luck, like the sort that made the old castle collapse upon his father’s head, along with four of Charioce’s older brothers. Could be gambling. But the girl's - _Nina_ , he absentmindedly corrects himself, and not much of a girl, considering– is just–

It's not as it should be.

Her hair.

Specifically, her bangs.

Those bangs are not straight.

It's all sloppily cut, hanging over her rather plain (yet symmetrical) face – it gets it all wrong, makes him want to tuck it behind her ear and out of sight. Charioce can't help but muse over it; it'd take so little effort– he’d just run his fingers up her cheek, through her bangs– before grabbing at them, unsheathing one of his daggers, and cutting all the mess off, smooth it over. He wonders if it’d make her eyes brighter, letting more light through, although they’re already–

 

“– Lord?”

He blinks lazily and turns to the General; he tuned him out completely.

It doesn’t matter, much.

“Dismissed,” he replies and doesn’t bother with more before returning to his thoughts.

 

 

He wonders how she’d look if she’d grow it out.

 

* * *

 

Nina’s walking next to him.

The thoughts that run through his head before his boot lands on the cobblestone are like a flood; she hadn’t said anything yet, but every moment between one step and another stretches out, growing thinner and thinner and they move on.

For years he’d been fooling his guards and sneaking away to have a chance to walk among his people, but his interaction with the commoners and the peasants never went as far as actual conversation – nothing more than asking “ _How much?_ ” at a food stand or offering to help. It’d been a decade of wear in his conversation skills, barking commands and having people clamp shut as soon as he walks into a room, never questioning him, never daring to voice their opinions.

Not that any of them had anything worthy to say.

Charioce decides to stick to what he knows. Offering to cut her hair would probably wouldn’t be seen as the favor it clearly is – so he settles for other qualities.

“Not only are you strong,” he tells her, “But you’re fast, as well.”

Nina doesn’t respond, but slows her gait, just slightly, so they’re walking side by side; he feels the heat radiating from her, even through his clothes. It reconfirms what he remembered when that ridiculous duck challenged him to a contest against Nina – back then, Charioce wasn’t sure he wasn’t imagining how _different_ her palm felt against his, how much hotter than usual it ran.

He didn’t make it a habit,  holding women’s hands.

Still, when his attendants bathed him, he subtly noted the touch of their hands on his skin; none of them were as warm as Nina’s. Not even close.

 

“Why did you not fight back?” He asks, because he is mildly curious, and also because commenting on her physical abilities had no merit in making a conversation.

“That’s…” her voice shakes, awkwardly, before uttering some nonsense lie; “Because I’m a girl…” she mumbles, but the words turn softer and softer as she speaks.

Nina is a very bad liar.

Charioce seems to be meeting a lot of those, lately.

He doesn’t call her out on it, though. It doesn’t matter much why she didn’t fight – he dispatched the men much more efficiently than she’d been able to. Besides, he could hardly judge her, considering; everyone are entitled to their own secrets, to some extent.

It’s harmless.

 

“Why are you looking down?” He asks, and again, she doesn’t answer; instead, her skin is flushed pink as her hair.

It’s a rather bizarre visage.

She blushes so easily, a fleeting thought wonders if the blush hadn’t seeped into her hair from her scalp, soaking the roots with red that seeps onwards, dyeing it in this odd shade.

 

“Nina, was it?”

Finally, that seems to resonate with her. She gasps, quietly; her cheeks turn dark with blood, and the heat coming from her seems to intensify. It’s probably just the custom Charioce is wearing; the headdress kept him rather warm, which is why he preferred to keep his chest bare.

“You remembered,” she mumbles, keeping her stride, and doesn’t ask him for his own name.

The conversation is clearly not going anywhere, much like the two of them. Keeping his eyes ahead, it doesn’t matter much where his feet would tread. By nightfall, he’d against be in his castle, with its chilly halls and daft advisors who take his time and offer nothing valuable in return. He keeps his frustration in check; he wasn’t aware a decade of simpering fools groveling around him made him into such a poor conventionalist. All the while, the chatter around them is lively, filled with laughter and voice mixing together into the unique harmony of the marketplace. Any frustration Charioce might have had doesn’t matter; he dismisses the anger the same way he dismisses people. It’s not beneficial, so it doesn’t have a place in his head.

 

“Did you need something from me?” he asks, because she keeps to his side and haven’t talked yet. Therefore, she must have something she wants.

(They all do.)

 

 

It turns out differently than he expected.

 

* * *

 

A King can’t afford to be afraid.

Not even for his own kingdom.

Rather, for the sake of that very same kingdom, a King must carry himself through life with no misgivings about himself; his will is the one which bellies the most responsibility behind it, after all.

 

“I forgot to return one to you.” Charioce says as hands Nina the misplaced pepper, none of his slight apprehension at himself transferring into his calm and collected statement.

She fumbles awkwardly, but her hand shows of quick reflexes, shooting out to quickly grab the pepper as if flies through the air behind the stand.

 “Welcome!” Her voice cracks at him, like it’s no bother at all.

 

(Maybe it isn’t.)

 

* * *

 

The music is pleasant enough. It’s not as fine-tuned as it is among the pieces played amidst the castle walls, but the commoners have their own merits with their simple melodies, repetitive and jolly. It strums on his memories, of simpler days when the world he knew was uncomplicated, when his mother’s voice danced alongside whichever instruments that were available.

An urge burns through him, chilling in its suddenness, its freshness; his palm feels empty without the hilt of a sword as the blood in his veins rushes through like he’s in the middle of a battlefield, struggling to draw breath.

And yet.

It’s different, that rush he’s experiencing. It’s not bloodlust; he’s too familiar with the latter to distinguish between the two. It’s confounding in its similarities, but there’s no threat anywhere near them; only Nina, with the fire-glow reflecting in her eyes as she watches the men and women prance around the stage, transfixed, as if she was seeing it for the first time.

Charioce is not sure if he has a name for this feeling.

Maybe it’s recklessness.

“Would you like to try?”

He asks her, because he’s done enough watching in his life, and was never fond of it – he’d much rather participate.

Nina makes some more of her peculiar sounds. “No way, I can’t–“ she stutters, “– I don’t know this dance _at all_.”

The skin of his palm itches.

When he takes her hand in his – slowly, gently, giving her ample amount of time to slip her small hand away from the loose grasp – the warmth between them snuffs it out.

 

His hand tingles for the remainder of the night, long after Nina ran off.

It’s not unpleasant.

* * *

 

“Is something wrong, my Lord?” The servant by his side asks as Charioce pauses mid-chew, frowning at the plate.

He chews the bite a dozen times more, before swallowing.

“The taste is rather bland.” He states, staring at the decorated plate. He’d never noticed the intricate transcriptions are so masterfully crafted around the plates; this one is a song, which paints a bright picture for those who read it.

“Tell the kitchen staff to add more spices to it. No,” he corrects himself, mid-thought. “Tell them to add more pepper.”

 

 

 

At dinner, the first bite leaves his mouth burning.

 

(It already has him hungry for more.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Four episodes until their marriage! hahahaha no way Nina is going to die at the end hahaha no not my baby she’d be _fine_  
>  Feedback is much appreciated! ♥
> 
> [NOW WITH SUPER-CUTE ART](https://fritorito.tumblr.com/post/161323831355/i-keep-thinking-of-this-fic?is_highlighted_post=1) by [Fritorito](https://fritorito.tumblr.com/)! THANK YOU SO MUCH HUN~!(ノ*゜▽゜*)~♥


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